A Father's Shame
by Barcardivodka
Summary: Chapter 3: Personal information from the past could have consequences for Waverly's senior team
1. Chapter 1

A thank you story for butimstillfondofyou on tumblr

As always, with grateful thanks to Jay.

In 1939 Viktor Kuryakin, husband of Yagoda, father to Illya, is caught up in one of Stalin's purges. He is falsely accused of embezzling party funds and sent to the labour camps. An unlikely source provides a link, and a future, to his son.

* * *

 ** _September 1939 - Moscow_**

"Ivan! What brings you to my door this late in the evening?" Viktor Kuryakin asked jovially his voice full of curiosity. He was about to beckon his friend and colleague in when he noticed another man stood at the bottom of the steps and two cars parked directly outside the house.

"Viktor, this is Oleg Kuznetsov," Ivan introduced, his voice laced with regret. " _Major_ Kuznetsov of the NKVD." The other man joined Ivan on the top step and gave a nod in greeting. He was a plain, non-descript man, nothing about him stood out. He was about six feet in height, four inches shorter than Viktor and wore a dark grey overcoat. He suited his profession perfectly.

"Please gentleman, come in," Viktor invited as he opened the door wider. He clamped down on the despair that threatened to overwhelm him as he closed the door behind them. When he turned to face the two men his expression was a mask of pleasant curiosity. "Won't you come through?" He led them from the hall and into the living room. His wife looked up from where she was sat on the sofa next to their son as he entered and then stood up as the other men step inside.

"Ivan, what a pleasant surprise," she smiled. She looked at Viktor, her eyes filled with worry.

"Yagoda may I introduce Major Oleg Kuznetsov," Viktor left out that the man was from the secret police. "Major, my wife, Yagoda and my son, Illya." His young son left the sofa and joined his mother by her side. Yagoda's hand immediately went to his shoulder and pulled him closer to her.

"A fine family," Kuznetsov returned pleasantly.

"Yagoda, some tea for our guests, perhaps?"

"Of course. Illya, I will need your help with the tray."

"Yes, mother," Illya replied dutifully, following her from the room, his gaze full of inquisitiveness as he looked from Ivan and Kuznetsov.

The men stood silent until Yagoda and Illya had left the room and the door closed behind them. Viktor turned to look at Ivan.

"Why are you here?" He asked sharply.

"You are to be charged with embezzlement of party funds," it was Kuznetsov that answered.

"That's preposterous!" Viktor snapped back. "I am no thief."

"There is a wealth of evidence against you, Comrade Kuryakin," Kuznetsov replied calmly.

"Evidence? What evidence? Ivan, do you support this madness?" Viktor implored desperately.

"Viktor, my friend," Ivan said, his voice full of sorrow. He moved to clasp his hand around Viktor's arm. "Stalin himself has accused you. A charge of embezzlement is far better than the alternative."

Ivan was right, of course. For the last decade Stalin had been purging the country of those who spoke out against him. His paranoia had grown to such an extent that even disagreeing with him could mean a death sentence. Viktor had foolishly thought himself immune to such madness, having long been a favourite of Stalin's since the man had come to power.

"The sentence?" Viktor asked hoarsely, as the full horror of his fate started to become clear.

"Fifteen years in one of the labour camps," Kuznetsov said. Viktor looked at him in horror.

"Fifteen years! But what of my family?"

"They are to be turned out, Viktor," Ivan's hand tightened on his arm. "I promise you, I will look out for them, as best as I can."

"They will starve!" Viktor roared out in horror. "Illya is only eight. Is he to be subjected to the hardship of the factories? To have no other options but to live a short brutal life." He grasped Ivan's shoulder. "He is a bright boy. He excels at mathematics. He has surpassed his classmates already. You cannot condemn him to such a life." He pleaded.

"Viktor, there is no choice. If you resist arrest you will be executed. Yagoda and Illya must survive as best they can until you can re-join them. Yagoda is an educated woman; she will be able to tutor Illya. As I have already promised you, my friend, I will do all that I am able for them." Viktor released his hold and turned his back to the men.

"Comrade Kuryakin, when your son turns fourteen I may be able to smooth his entry into the academy," Kuznetsov said quietly.

Viktor turned to look at him. "A soldier?" he sneered.

"It is better than a factory worker, no? At least he will have more options. He would be able to continue his education."

"He will be the son of a traitor to the people. The Kuryakin name will forever be tainted. He will be an outcast." Viktor argued bitterly.

"His loyalty will be continually tested and he will have to work harder to prove himself worthy that is true. But it is an obstacle that can be overcome."

Viktor bowed his head and gazed unseeing at the carpet in front of him. Fifteen years in a labour camp, just because something he had said, or written, had been taken the wrong way by Stalin. A man so paranoid he would shoot his own shadow if he could. But it was Viktor and his family who were to suffer and their suffering would be great.

He slowly raised his head. "Which camp?"

"Sevvostlag," Kuznetsov replied tonelessly.

Viktor closed his eyes in anguish.

"I would like some time with my wife and son," he opened his eyes and looked at Kuznetsov.

"I can give you an hour, no more. You should advise you wife to pack as many things of value as she can fit into a suitcase. Things that she will be able to sell. She and your son will have to leave at daybreak."

"They can stay with us," Ivan injected. "For as long as they like." It was a desperate and rash offer and they both knew it.

"You have seven children, Ivan," Viktor replied wearily. "You do not have the room for two more. And if it's found out you have the family of a traitor under your roof, you could suffer the same fate. But I would be grateful if you could help Yagoda and Illya find accommodation elsewhere." He stepped towards Ivan and placed his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. "If you could keep your promise to help when you can, I will always be in your debt."

Ivan nodded and the two embraced.

"We will wait in the hall." Ivan headed for the door, Kuznetsov a step behind. As the door opened Yagoda was stood a few paces away, her face pinched white. There was no tray in her hands. Illya stood by her side, his face usually so full of mischievous smiles, was pulled into a worried frown. Ivan looked at them both with dismay as he walked past.

She turned her gaze to Viktor who summoned her inside. The doors closed ominously behind her and her son.

* * *

Notes: NKVD was the forerunner for the KGB Although the movie indicates Illya was 10/11 when his father was sent to the gulag, I have taken creative licence to move it back a couple of years, so that I could put the story into the Stalin Purges timeframe. Sevvostlag was the labour camp from which prisoners were forced to work on The Road of Bones.


	2. Chapter 2

**_October 1944 - Sevvostlag Labour Camp, Magadan Oblast (6419 miles from Moscow)_**

"Kuryakin, you have a visitor."

"Me?" Viktor blurted out to the guard that had addressed him, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"Yes, you. Don't keep him waiting," the guard snapped out. He roughly grabbed Viktor's arm and propelled him forward.

Six years in the camps had packed muscle onto Viktor's lean frame, but the punishments, lack of food and long months of biting cold were starting to take their toll. He had nine more years to survive.

He was allowed to write to his wife once a month, which he did so care of his friend Ivan. He had never yet received a reply. He feared for Yagoda and Illya. He feared that they too had been sent to the camps or had perished on the unforgiving streets of Moscow. Yagoda was the granddaughter of a Politburo officer and had always lived the privileged life of a party member. As such, she was well educated, but had never known the bite of hunger or the exhaustion of working twelve-hour days. Neither had he until he arrived at the camps.

His son, Illya, was never meant to experience such hardship either. Illya had excelled at his studies. At just eight years of age he was on his way to becoming a chess champion. Mathematics came easily to him. His future should have been bright, a university degree, followed by a career in his chosen field, physics perhaps, or mathematics. Then into politics. Illya should never have known a day of hunger. The boy would always be shunned, tainted by his father's alleged treason. He would be lucky to get work at all.

Viktor was pulled from his musings when he was roughly halted near the camp gate. He looked up as a man stepped out of the guard house.

"Thank you, soldier." The man said, dismissing the guard. As he stepped closer Viktor recognised him.

"Major Kuznetsov!"

"Comrade Kuryakin."

"You have come to see me?"

"I'm afraid I have come to convey bad news," Kuznetsov took a step closer. "Your wife died six months ago."

Viktor stared in open mouth horror as the words slowly sunk in.

"I only found out myself last month," he heard Kuznetsov continue.

"How? How did she die?" he choked out.

Kuznetsov hesitated for a moment. "The doctors concluded it was a brain tumour. "

Hot tears rolled down Viktor's cheeks as he fell to his knees on the frozen earth.

"Illya? My son? Is he all right? Is he safe?" he begged.

Kuznetsov crouched down in front of him, his hand disappearing into his overcoat for a second, before coming back into a view holding a photograph.

"He was sent to an orphanage, but I have had him moved to the academy. He is settling in well." He held out the photograph to Viktor who took it with shaking hands.

Illya was no long Viktor's happy carefree young boy. A sullen face stared back at him. More man than boy now. Viktor brushed a thumb over the photograph, more tears welling in his eyes as he noticed the ugly, vivid red scar near Illya's right eye. Viktor could not bring himself to ask how Illya had been so cruelly injured. His heart ached for the gentle young boy that he had condemned to a lifetime of hardship and shame.

"He is already six foot tall," Kuznetsov said. "The doctors say he will grow taller."

"He is doing well in his studies?" Viktor asked.

"He is excelling in all his studies. He is an admirable young man. He will be a credit to his country."

Viktor knew that was the highest compliment a man like Kuznetsov could give. Illya was destined to serve his country as a soldier. It was not the future Viktor would have hoped for his son. But at least Illya had a future.

Kuznetsov stood up and Viktor followed suit. The cold had seeped painfully into his knees. He reluctantly held the photograph out to the other man.

"No. It is yours to keep. I will try and send you more."

"Thank you. For this," Viktor indicated the photograph. "And for telling me about my wife."

"I managed to retrieve some items from your wife's former … home. I will pass them onto Illya when he is of age."

"You have been very kind to my family. Why?"

Kuznetsov smiled. "Some NKVD officers do also have a heart. Your son, given the right opportunities, will be a credit to you and his country. He will regain the honour of your name."

With a nod Kuznetsov turned and walked back to the guard house. He spoke to one of the guards for a moment and then the gate was opened and he disappeared. A few moments later the guard approached Viktor and he was escorted back to the barracks.

Kuznetsov was true to his word and Viktor received a new photograph of Illya at the beginning of each October. They were left unmolested by the guards.

 ** _August 1952 - Sevvostlag Labour Camp, Magadan Oblast (6419 miles from Moscow)_**

"Kuryakin. You have a visitor."

Viktor turned watery eyes towards the guard as he painfully took another breath. He was dying. Cancer, the doctor had told him. At least he would die in a bed in the infirmary and not on the floor of the barrack with a hundred bodies fighting for an inch of extra space.

The guard disappeared from his bedside and a familiar face replaced it.

"Comrade Kuryakin."

"Major Kuznetsov."

"It is Colonel now," the other man smiled.

"I'm dying," Viktor stated bluntly.

"Yes, I know. I had informed the camp commander to notify me if such an event should happen."

"How is Illya?"

"Illya is a member of the Special Forces now. His commanders are very pleased with him. He is also continuing his studies when his duties allow."

Viktor nodded. "He is a good boy."

Kuznetsov pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and handed it to Viktor. "I would have brought him with me, but he is currently on a mission. I do not know when he will return."

Viktor looked at the photograph and smiled. It showed Illya playing chess, his face a study of concentration as he contemplated his next move. His opponent looked somewhat harried.

"He won the game?" Viktor asked.

Kuznetsov nodded. "Easily. It has been difficult finding him challenging opponents."

"May I ask a favour, Colonel?"

"Of course."

Viktor reached under his pillow with some difficulty and pulled out a watch. He handed it to Kuznetsov.

"Will you give this to Illya? It is all I have to give him." He huffed out a hoarse laugh. "My wife gave it me, just before Illya was born. I have fought to keep it safe from my fellow prisoners, from the guards, from being broken. It has served my sentence alongside me. It knows my pain and sorrow, but also my happier days."

Kuznetsov carefully placed the watch in his pocket. "I will ensure he receives it at the earliest opportunity." He promised.

"Thank you for all you have done. The photographs have meant everything to me. It was good to see him grow into such a handsome young man."

"He is also taller than you now, Comrade. His height has been declared at six foot five."

"Tell him I thought of him every day. That I wished I could have seen him grow up." Viktor wheezed out.

Kuznetsov leant forward and patted his arm. "He has always known this."

Viktor fell asleep a few moments later and when he woke Kuznetsov was gone.

Viktor Kuryakin died four days later.


	3. 1973

**June 1973 – Admiralty House, Whitehall, London**

Moving the large cardboard box he was carrying to his left hip, Alexander Waverly gave a quick knock on Kuryakin's office door with his free right hand and entered. Much as he expected, both Solo and Gaby were also there. The man in question sat at his desk, his suit jacket hung from the back of his chair, and he had already rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie as was his habit when at Headquarters, his shoulder holster firmly in place.

Gaby was sat in an old, overstuffed armchair that had mysteriously appeared some years before. It had been moved so that it was now within arm's reach of Kuryakin. Or more precisely, its current occupant was within easy reach. Solo, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, his hair perfectly coiffed leaned against the windowsill on the other side of the desk. All three looked up as Waverly entered.

"Good morning chaps," he greeted with a smile, having the sentiment returned in triplicate as he placed the box on the edge of the desk.

"What's this?" Kuryakin asked curiously. "A new mission?" The Russian's accent had softened over the years as his English had improved and although he could do flawless Scottish and mid-western American accents, an English one was still beyond him.

"Ah, no," Waverly tapped the top of the box. "It's rather personal."

"Personal?" Solo pushed himself away from the windowsill.

"For Mr Kuryakin." Waverly smiled as the Russian looked at him in surprise.

"For me? What is it?" Kuryakin pulled the box closer to him, his eyes searching for clues regarding its content, but didn't open it.

Waverly glanced at Gaby and Solo, over the years they, along with Kuryakin had developed a very deep bond, becoming a rather odd, but very protective family.

"It concerns your parents," Waverly replied softly. Kuryakin removed his hands from the box as if it had suddenly burned him. He looked at Waverly in bewilderment. Gaby pushed herself out of the armchair, not an easy task for someone so heavily pregnant, and came to stand next to Kuryakin, placing a hand on his arm as if to ground him. Solo moved around the desk and closer to Waverly, as if to ward off any sudden attack. "Oleg Kuznetsov sent it. He was recently granted leave to retire on a full pension. He found the box's contents when he was clearing out his office." He explained.

Kuryakin looked at Gaby and then at Solo before turning his gaze to the box.

"Would you rather one of us looked through the contents first, Peril?" Solo offered sincerely. Waverly didn't voice that he'd already looked at the contents. Not out of any sense of curiosity, but with a concern for Kuryakin's wellbeing. Waverly had removed an item from the box. An item he felt would only bring anguish to the younger man. Kuryakin had worked hard to bring his psychosis under control, and was a well-liked and respected section leader. He and Solo had become more like brothers over the years. They irritated and annoyed each other on a daily basis, but their loyalty and trust for each other was unshakeable.

Waverly had put a stop to any romantic relationship between Kuryakin and Gaby whilst they were field agents. But when Kuryakin had to retire and became a section leader their smouldering relationship had exploded. Waverly had been rather touched when Gaby had asked him to give her away at their wedding. Four years later their first child was due to arrive in only a matter of weeks.

Waverly was often thankful that Solo and Kuryakin had stumbled into his path all those years ago. Waverly had fought hard to keep Solo and Kuryakin, freeing them both from the leashes that had tied them to their former agencies. He had secured a full pardon for Solo, so that his freedom could never been threatened again. Kuryakin had proved trickier, but Waverly had finally unbound him from the KGB without the Russian having to defect.

Five years ago the unique and highly successful team had floundered when Kuryakin had been seriously injured on a mission and nearly died. It had, however, ended Kuryakin's career as a field agent. The injury to his left leg had left him with a pronounced limp and the need to walk with a cane.

Waverly had been astonished and somewhat indignant that the Russian assumed he would be returned to the KGB and a very bleak future. The agency was growing fast and Waverly was struggling to oversee every aspect of it. He'd offered Kuryakin the leadership of the communications section, encompassing everything from research and development of tracking, listening and communication devices, decoding and language translations to routine contact with agents on missions.

Kuryakin had surpassed Waverly's already high expectations. As had Solo when an injury forced him out of the field a year later. Sadistically tortured, Solo's right hand had been cruelly damaged with a hammer. Although the doctors had tried their best, Solo lost much of the dexterity in his hand. It was too weak to grip and fire a gun and his light-fingered skills of pick-pocketing and lockpicking were severely curtailed. Although he had learnt to shoot with his left hand, Solo had taken the position to head the covert operation section. As well as training agents in the art of deception and devising undercover identities Solo and Kuryakin had established a telephone exchange and small satellite offices. Agents undercover could now give a business name, address and telephone number that would withstand the most intense of scrutinises, thereby cementing their alias.

Gaby, with neither Kuryakin nor Solo to back her up, had given up field work, much to the immense relief of all three men. Waverly had put her in charge of the personnel section, giving her responsibility of the recruitment of non-field agents and the welfare and discipline of all the staff. It seemed like a mere woman-centric role, but it gave Gaby an invaluable insight on how a spy agency was run. Over the following years Waverly had handed over the recruitment of field agents and the authority over several budgets. To the outside world she appeared no more than a glorified secretary, but Waverley knew that if anything happened to him she would be able to step up to the podium and keep the agency running smoothly, with the assistance of Solo and Kuryakin.

With all three in senior positions UNCLE had never run more smoothly. It had certainly been interesting having all three of them underfoot.

Waverly watched as Kuryakin flipped off the lid from the box. He pulled out a thick file that Waverly knew contained information about his father's trial and a record of his years in the gulag. Kuryakin passed it to Gaby who placed it on the edge of the desk. Eight photographs came next.

"I don't remember these being taken," Kuryakin said as he spread them out in front of him. Some were creased from being folded up numerous times, only the last one was in good condition. Solo moved to stand behind the desk, one hand resting on the back of Kuryakin's chair, he picked the last one up and flipped it over.

"This one's dated 1952. You were still with Special Forces then, weren't you?" Solo queried.

Kuryakin nodded. "It was the year my father died. Colonel Kuznetsov gave me his watch and offered me a position with the KGB. These are my father's things?" He asked Waverly.

"The photographs were. The letters and file were sent to Kuznetsov after your father died." Waverly replied. He'd wondered why Oleg hadn't passed the items along to Kuryakin sooner. Had they really been forgotten? Or had Kuznetsov wanted to protect him from the harsh realities of his father's life in the gulag? Much like Waverly was hoping to protect the younger man from the truth of his mother's life.

"Letters?" Kuryakin pulled a bundle of letters from the box, Gaby pulled out another.

"These are from my father to my mother. They're unopened."

Gaby handed him the letters she had taken. "These are from your mother." She said sadly. The letters were also unopened.

Kuryakin looked down at the letters in his hand and shook his head. "They weren't even allowed the comfort of a letter."

"Perhaps Gaby and Peril could take the rest of the day off, sir?" Solo asked Waverly. "Give them some…"

"No." Kuryakin looked up at Solo. "I wish to share this," he tapped the box, "with you both, Cowboy."

A look of understanding passed between the two men and Solo nodded. Waverly had never envisaged that the two of them would ever be more than colleagues. But rivalry had turned to friendship and the years of shared danger had deepened it to brotherhood.

"Well, in that case, why don't the three of you take the rest of the day and I'll see you on Monday," Waverly offered. "I'm sure I can handle anything that might pop up and I'll telephone if you're required," he added as the trio started to protest.

Waverly walked back to his office after making sure the three of them had left the building, Kuryakin with an arm around a waddling Gaby and Solo with the box tucked securely under his arm. He sat down at his desk and looked down at the file he had removed from the box.

Had he done the right thing by not allowing Kuryakin to see it? He knew the other man adored his mother, even in death, seeing her sacrifices to ensure he was clothed, fed and educated through the innocent eyes of a child.

The harsh realities of what she had suffered through were laid bare in cold, blunt honest words in the file before him. He pulled open the bottom draw of his desk and hid the file from view.

There was no telling what was in the letters Kuryakin's parents had written to each other. Waverly was gambling on the fact that they would have kept from each other their worries and fears, but tried to give comfort and assurances to one another.

He could only hope he was right. Kuryakin, Solo and Gaby had fought hard for the peace and happiness they had now found. If one of them faltered, they would all fall.


End file.
